


Just Before I Let You Down

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But John will set him straight, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Failure to Safeword, Kink Meme, M/M, No lasting injury, Prompt Fic, Punishment, Safewords, Serlock's an idiot sometimes, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock acts like the idiot John knows he's not. Twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Before I Let You Down

**Author's Note:**

> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=121455199#t121455199) on the kink meme
> 
> Title taken from "Wish I could forget" by The Weepies.
> 
> Warning: This fic contains neither an abusive relationship nor knowing cruelty. That said Sherlock fails to safe word when he should, so be aware of that if it's an issue for you.

“John, I - ”  
  
Quiet.” John bites out, locking the door behind him, and Sherlock hears his teeth click as his mouth snaps shut. “Strip.” The order is quiet but forceful. Sherlock, well aware that he’s already in mound of trouble, immediately sets to doing so. He’s careful to fold everything properly and put it in a neat pile on the table. John, despite what one might think upon seeing the state of their flat, likes things to be orderly and has always made Sherlock fold his clothes when they do this. Not that he needs to - Sherlock always treats his suits, and all his clothing, well. Better, in fact, than he often treats his body.  
  
Sherlock can feel nervous energy buzzing under his skin, feels like the very air around him is crackling with it, but he holds himself as still as he possibly can under John’s watchful eye. “Do you remember your safeword?” John asks in that carefully calm, controlled, voice that means he is absolutely furious. Unsure if he’s allowed to speak, Sherlock nods. “Say it for me.”  
  
“Sussex,” Sherlock all but whispers, feeling John’s anger like a physical weight.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John’s voice crack out like a whip and Sherlock wants to shrink in on himself for disappointing his Dom. “What was that, Sherlock?”  
  
“Sussex, Sir,” he corrects as soon as John’s finished speaking.  
  
“Better,” and God the meager praise makes Sherlock feel like a man dying of dehydration trying to catch rain drops on his tongue. He needs so much more, he needs a Goddamn river, even though he knows he won’t get it and he doesn’t deserve anything more at the moment. After, though. After he makes this up to John, after he takes his punishment and it’s over - John’s usually very free with his affection then. He just needs to get through this.  
  
A sharp slap to his thigh brings him back to reality where he’s being stared down by an extremely irked looking ex-army doctor. “Pay _attention,_ Sherlock.” John says sternly slapping a bit higher on Sherlock’s leg this time, almost at the curve of his arse. He begins to apologize but John cuts him off. “Ah, ah, ah, I don’t want to hear another word out of you unless it’s your safe word. Do not speak unless I ask you a direct question.” He nods sharply, not wanting to disappoint John further.

“Corner,” John says firmly, pointing to the same corner Sherlock is always sent to during punishments. “Kneel,” he adds.  
  
Sherlock walks to the corner but hesitates before kneeling. Earlier this morning and experiment had explod -  _gone wrong,_  sending an unfortunate mixture of broken glass and acid hurdling through their sitting room. Most of it had been cleaned up but some parts of the room, mainly the corners, including  _Sherlock’s corner,_  had been abandoned when they had to leave suddenly because their suspect had just been spotted entering an abandoned warehouse. Now he’s staring down at a corner covered in pieces of glass coated in dried acid. Does John know this corner wasn’t cleaned up? Is this part of Sherlock’s punishment? It must be, he thinks, since John had been the one cleaning up the majority of the mess. He must remember this corner hadn’t been cleaned before they left. The acid won’t  _burn_  Sherlock though it will irritate his skin if he’s left kneeling long enough and the the glass will hurt something terrible. Has he really made John so angry? It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask when John slaps him sharply on the bum.  
  
“I said ‘kneel’, Sherlock,” he says in a hard voice. “You’re already getting a spanking, do you really want to make it worse for yourself? Because I can get the strap if that’s the case.” Sherlock shakes his head quickly and drops to his knees,  _hard._  “Good,” John says, laying a brief hand on the top of his head that he can’t help but try and lean into. “Now stay there until I tell you to come out and think about why you’re being punished.” With that John moves away to his chair where Sherlock can hear him rifling through the newspaper.  
  
John told him to think about how he got in trouble and he tries, Christ, he really does. But the pain in his knees is making it impossible and he’s only been kneeling for a few minutes. _Think_  he tells himself sternly. This is where John wants him and so this is where he will stay. His job, right now, is to obey John, and that means thinking about what happened,  _not_ the discomfort in his knees. Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, filing through the details of the case.  
  
They’d been chasing their suspect for nearly a week before he was spotted this morning. Everyone was on edge - he’d already shot a cop walking her beat who happened to knock on his car window to point out a broken tail light three days ago. The officer survived but now that they knew he was armed and willing to shoot, everyone was being more careful.  
  
Everyone except Sherlock of course. He knew that Matterson had a gun - he also knew how likely he was to run once seven cop cars pulled up around the building. Or shoot another police officer. Sherlock may not particularly care about any of Scotland Yard (except Lestrade but that was never  _ever_  mentioned) but he didn’t enjoy seeing people get shot either.  
  
So he decided to take a  _controlled_  risk. Sherlock snuck in ahead of the Yarders and apprehended the suspect himself. Yes, Matterson had a gun, yes he had shot it. That wasn’t the point. The  _point_  was that Matterson was now under arrest and no one had gotten shot. Including Sherlock. He just got a shot at. A bit. That’s all.

John hadn’t seen it that way. He’d heard the shot ring out and - Sherlock shifts uneasily on his knees, biting back a whimper.  
  
 _You are in trouble,_  he reminds himself.  _John wants you to be here so stop it._  Sherlock can’t help it though. Despite himself he wonders how much time has passed. It’s all too easy for him to get lost in thought when thinking about a case. Now though he can feel individual pieces of glass sticking into his knees, the skin already feeling red and irritated from rubbing against dried acid. He shifts again, trying to find a more comfortable position when John’s voice cuts across him like a whip.  
  
 _“Settle, Sherlock,”_  John says firmly. From the way his voice echoes against the walls Sherlock can tell he’s sitting in his chair, but there’s no longer the rustle of newsprint meaning John must just be sitting in his chair watching his boyfriend squirm in the corner.  
  
Very suddenly, it’s all too much.  
  
It’s not uncommon for Sherlock to cry while being punished, but it’s always about how badly he hates upsetting John not the pain, and it’s never while he’s still in the corner. But right now the disappointment in John’s voice, the memory of the look of fear on his face before he’d seen Sherlock unharmed and hiding behind a crate, and on top of it all, the growing pain in his knees - it all pushes him over the edge.  
  
He’s supposed to be quiet, so Sherlock tries to muffle his tears but it doesn’t work very well. The idea that he’s made his Dom so upset as to make him kneel on broken glass is overwhelming and he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being until he hears John’s concerned, “Sherlock?  
  
"Love, come over here.” John orders, but very gently, obviously less angry than before. Sherlock shakes his head ‘no’ and is simultaneously horrified he’s still disobeying John when John’s so angry with him, and utterly convinced that he doesn’t deserve whatever comfort John seems to be willing to offer.  
  
The chair squeaks, and the floorboards creaks and then there is a hand on his shoulder and a warmth at his back. John’s wearing one of his favorite jumpers, dark blue wool, and it’s soft against Sherlock’s skin and comforting. “Sherlock,” John says at his ear, “Do you know why you’re being punished?” Sherlock’s not entirely sure about that actually, but he nods anyways, frantic for John’s forgiveness. “That was a direct question, Sherlock.” John reminds him gently.  
  
“Yes, sir. I know why I’m in trouble, sir.” Sherlock manages to choke out around his tears. He doesn’t know what exactly he did wrong - they  _caught_  Matterson - but he made John angry and scared and that right there’s enough for Sherlock.  
  
John seems to realise this because he hugs Sherlock closer and explains, “I know that you weren’t trying to get hurt today, and you didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, which is why you went after Matterson alone. I know what you were trying to do Sherlock but it was incredibly stupid and you’re not stupid. I expect better from you. What,” he goes on, “If you had been shot? Or killed? What would I do then, without you? You’re the most important person in my entire life Sherlock,” John says softly, pulling Sherlock closer to him, “I won’t lose you to some idiot with a gun. No suspect - hell no case - is more important than your safety.”

Sherlock can feel the guilt bubbling in his stomach, and it makes him cry harder. He squirms in John’s arms until they’re facing each other and Sherlock tries, and fails, not to make a face at the pain that flares in his knees. Luckily John leans in at that moment to kiss his forehead and doesn’t notice.

“Come on,” he says holding Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s finish up, and then this will all be over and we’ll move on.” John’s not lying. Once a punishment is over Sherlock’s forgiven and John doesn’t bring it up again. Right now anything that’s not being on his knees, even if it means a spanking, sounds wonderful.  
  
Sherlock pushes to his feet, eager for it to be over, but he can’t bite back the gasp of pain as his knees leave the floor. His skin, irritated and bleeding, pulls and stretches, shifting the glass and causing it to dig in even deeper in some places. The tears, which had started to slow down, are back in full force now. John turns and gives him a concerned look.   
  
If Sherlock was himself he’d realise that John not only looks concerned, he looks surprised. If Sherlock wasn’t stuck in some horrible halfway place between subspace and subdrop he’d realise John has seen his knees and dropped to his own, looking horrified. If Sherlock was okay, he’d know then and there that John had never wanted him to kneel on broken glass cushioned only by acid-covered wood.  
  
As it is, Sherlock’s only response is to clamp his free hand over his mouth in a futile effort to muffle his sobs.  _Quiet!_  He tells himself fiercely.  _John told you to be quiet, so_  listen  _to him and stop making such a racket._  
  
John stands up and circles both of Sherlock’s wrist tightly with his hands. “Sherlock, did you realise that the experiment hadn’t been cleared up from this morning when I sent you there?”   
  
Sherlock says, “Yes, Sir,” but it’s too garbled to sound anything like resembling words.  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything, Sherlock?” John asks, looking genuinely confused.  
  
“You wanted me there, so I stayed there,” is all he manages to get out. He doesn’t have to words to explain it properly right now. He’s not sure if he ever will.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” John says sadly, ghosting a hand over one of Sherlock’s knee caps. “I’m so, so sorry, love.”  
  
That brings Sherlock up short. He’s still crying, but it’s quieter now, not as desperate. “Sorry about what?” He asks in the uncertainty he only ever shows John, here, in the cocoon John has made for both of them, for  _him,_  safe in their flat when Sherlock needs (wants) to escape both the world and his own brain.  
  
John cups his cheek and Sherlock leans in to the steady pressure, enjoying the contact but confused all the same, John usually isn’t this gentle until after a punishment is over and it can’t be over yet because he hasn’t ended up tipped over John’s knees.  
  
“I’m sorry that I haven’t been taking good enough care of you.” Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt - no one in Sherlock’s entire  _life_  has taken better care of his than John does! - but John hushes him and and keeps going, “I’m sorry that I made you think I would  _ever_  knowingly make you kneel on broken, acid covered glass. And I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel safe enough to use your safe word when you need it.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock says the second John finishes. “Of course I feel safe enough to use the safe word! You would never continue anything if I said it!”  
  
“No, I wouldn’t,” John agrees, “But the safe word isn’t just there to use if I actively push too far. It’s there so you can use it if  _anything_  about a situation pushes you too far. I thought you knew that.” He looks sad, so unbearably sad, and Sherlock can’t stand it.  
  
“I do know that!” He insists.  
  
“Then why didn’t you safe word when you realized the corner hadn’t been cleaned up?”  
  
This is a trap. Sherlock isn’t sure how exactly, but he can spot this much. There is no good answer here. Not to John anyways. “I wasn’t supposed to speak,” he says eventually.  
  
“Except for your safe word,” John reminds him patiently.  
  
“I - ” Sherlock cuts himself off as he realizes that he has no idea why he didn’t safe word. “I was confused,” he says after a moment, and only John can truly appreciate what it costs him to admit to that. “It didn’t fit with what I know about you but I didn’t want to contradict you, Sir, and I was confused” Distantly he realizes he’s repeating himself now and God, how is this happening to him, how is he acting so  _pedestrian?_   “And then it just seemed better to obey and listen and show you I could be good.”

“Sherlock,” John runs his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “I love you and I will always love you however you behave. You could act like a total prat for the rest of our lives and I would love you.” He looks at Sherlock’s knees again and the presses a kiss to his forehead saying, “Come on. We’re not done talking about this, but I need to get whatever glass is embedded in your knees out now.”  
  
He lets John hold his hand and lead him to the bathroom where their best-stocked med kit is stored. John has Sherlock sit on the closed toilet lid and opens the kit taking out a pair of tweezers and the bottle of disinfectant. Carefully, piece by piece, John removes all of the glass, taking care to make it hurt as little as possible.   
  
With each piece that’s removed Sherlock feels more and more content to let John take care of him.  _This,_  he thinks, studying the top of John’s head,  _is perfect._  It not only feels good to sit and do as John bids, it feels right. The noise that has been building in his head ever since he saw glass lying in the corner recedes until there’s nothing but a soft blanket of quiet tucked around his brain. This is how belonging to John normally feels, how it’s  _supposed_  to feel. He watches as John carefully passes over each knee with a wet washcloth before pulling a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of his bag.  
  
“I’m going to disinfect the cuts now,” John warns him, “It will sting a bit, just try to hold still.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock says and he’s so far in his head that he doesn’t even feel the disinfectant, is actually still waiting for it when he realizes John is carefully taping gauze over each knee cap.  
  
“All done,” John says, kissing each knee gently, “Come on, love, we still need to talk about some things.” Sherlock knows they still need to finish his punishment, but that’s fine with him. He knows, wrapped in John’s love and careful attention, that John will take care of him. Whatever happens next is for his own good. These are the decisions he trusted John with when they started this and John’s reaction to what’s happened today - his genuine distress over Sherlock not using his safe word and his adamant refusal to punish Sherlock in a way that could really hurt him - only serves to reaffirm Sherlock’s trust in him. He’s ready to take his punishment so they can move on.  
  
Sherlock lets himself be led quietly until he realizes they’re entering the bedroom, not the sitting room. They never do punishments in the bedroom. Ever. “What are you doing?” He asks, stopping in the doorway.  
  
“I thought we could cuddle while we talked.” John looks puzzled and then worried, “Unless you don’t want to cuddle right now, of course,” he loosens his hold on Sherlock’s hand which Sherlock appreciates not at all.   
  
“When have I ever turned down laying in bed with you, John, really.” John smiles, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “But,” Sherlock looks down, suddenly feeling shy. He may deserve this spanking (he does, he knows it) but that doesn’t mean he’s  _eager_  for it. If it has to happen though it simply will  _not_  happen in their room. “What about the rest of my punishment?”  
  
John stares at him for a minute. “Sherlock, you great prat, you just knelt on broken glass for nearly an hour. Your punishment is over.”  
  
“Oh,” he says dumbly.  
  
“Oh,” John agrees kissing him. “Now come on.”

Sherlock allows himself to be pulled to the bed, letting John pull him down and arrange them both so that’s they’re lying comfortably. He’s got his face nestled into John’s neck, feeling warm and safe when John starts talking. “Sherlock, I love you, and I love what we have, but for our relationship to work like this, for us to have this sort of element in it, I have to be able to trust you. I have to trust that’ll not only listen to me and trust me, I need to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you can be trusted to take care of yourself.”  
  
John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, tugging gently as Sherlock all but purrs. “Are you listening to me, Sherlock? This only works if I can trust you with yourself. Do you understand that?”  
  
“Yes, John.” He feels John’s hands slide out of his hair and Sherlock lifts his head so their eyes meet. “I’m sorry.” he says, the worried turn of John’s eyes feeling like a punch to the gut. “I am. I should have safe worded and I will next time.”  
  
“You’d better,” John says cupping his cheek. “Because if this happens again we’re going to be taking a break from playing and having a serious conversation about if we’ll be starting again or not. Do you understand?” Sherlock nods feeling relieved when John kisses him. “I love you, you berk.”  
  
“I love you too.” Sherlock says against John’s lips.  
  
“I’d had something new I wanted to try tonight, once we were done dealing with what happened earlier.” His hand slides down to Sherlock’s hip and he desperately hopes John’s referring to the set of restraints they’d been looking at online together last month. “Are you feeling up to it?”  
  
“Please,” Sherlock says, suddenly wanting to be grounded in the knowledge that he is still John’s. “John, please, sir.”  
  
His Dom looks at his face for a long moment before nodding at whatever he finds there. He pulls a bag out from under their bed and Sherlock’s nearly positive it’s the restraints now. “What’s your safe word?” John asks firmly.  
  
“Sussex.” Sherlock tells him, skin tingling with the need to have John touch him, to be tied down and safe.  
  
“When will use you it,” he asks.  
  
“Whenever I need to,” Sherlock promises, desperate now. “Even if it’s just because I’m unsure or have questions.”  
  
“Good boy,” John praises. “Who do you belong to?”  
  
“You!”  
  
“That’s right,” John rolls on top of him, presses Sherlock’s wrist to the bed and watching with satisfaction as the tension drains out of him. “And I will protect you, even from your own fool self.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
